


Keep It Together

by writeitgood018



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Accidents, Hospitals, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 07:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18256889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeitgood018/pseuds/writeitgood018
Summary: Race knew he was driving at least fifteen miles over the speed limit, knew that at any moment flashing red and blue lights could appear and then he’d be screwed, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Nothing was more important than getting to the hospital. Absolutely nothing.





	Keep It Together

Race knew he was driving at least fifteen miles over the speed limit, knew that at any moment flashing red and blue lights could appear and then he’d be screwed, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Nothing was more important than getting to the hospital. Absolutely nothing.

With that thought in mind, Race pressed down even harder on the pedal, throwing caution to the wind. As he drove, he couldn’t figure out what was blurring his vision: the tears he was hurriedly blinking back, or the light November drizzle, but either way, it was getting harder and harder for him to focus on the road, to think of anything but the panicked thoughts filling his mind.

He shook his head quickly, roughly, as if that would shake him out of his dark thoughts.

No. No. He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t....

 _Fuck_.

Race slammed on the brakes, just in time to avoid running a red light and driving into oncoming traffic.

 _Get_ _it_ _together_ , _Race_ , _goddammit_!, he screamed at himself. He buried his head in his hands, elbows resting on the wheel and long fingers fisting his blonde curls. Blinking away tears, he looked up just as the light turned green, immediately slamming on the accelerator.

 _Go_ , _go_ , _go_ , _go_!

His hands clutched the steering wheel tightly, knuckles turning as white as his clenched teeth. Finally, finally, he was nearing his destination, the GPS’s emotionlessly automated voice giving him instructions. _Turn_ _left_ _here_. _In_ _2_ _miles_ , _take_ _a_ _right_ _on_ _Miller’s_ _Road_. _In_ _3_. _5_ _miles_....

Race tuned it all out, working on instinct, letting the detached voice get him where he needed to go. Where he needed to go, not where he wanted to go. He definitely did not want to be anywhere near the hospital today, anxiously awaiting news, and yet, here he was.

As the GPS chimed in with yet another command, Race couldn’t help but compare the sound to another, similar voice he had heard earlier that day, no less than an hour ago.

His brain replayed the conversation in his mind, overrunning his eyes with yet another wave of fresh tears.

He had been at home, in their shared apartment, zoning out as he watched some dumb reality television show after getting home from class.

That was before he got the phone call, before he saw the unknown number. He had debated picking it up, had thought about letting it go to voicemail. He almost did. But something made him pick up the phone, answering it on the very last ring.

When he did, a woman’s voice traveled across the line, unfamiliar and harried.

“Hello, is this Anthony Higgins?”

“Er— yes, this is he. May I ask who is speaking?”

At the time, Race barely had enough energy to respond, exhausted after a full day of classes and a sleepless night staying up to write a term paper. All that changed with the woman’s next words.

“This is Nurse Wilson of Fairview Hospital. You are listed as the emergency contact of Sean Conlon, is this correct?”

Barely processing the words, Race had barely managed to choke out a strangled, “Yes,” as the room spun around him.

“Alright Mr. Higgins, now I need you to stay with me and stay calm. Mr. Conlon was in a car accident, and he has just been brought in for emergency medical attention. Now I can’t say the state of his injuries or his prognosis at the moment, but it is imperative that you come to the hospital. Is that something you are able to do?”

Hands tightly clutching the phone, Race nodded shakily before realizing the woman couldn’t see him. He managed another quick yes, panic starting to build as the nurse continued.

“Is there anyone else I should call to notify?”

Race jerked his head, stumbling over his words in his haste to answer.

“Uh, yes, his— his brother, Jack, Jack Kelly? He’s his, uh, his foster brother, he should be on the emergency contacts list as well? And uh, his mom, Medda, but she’s out of town so I don’t— I don’t—“

He cut himself off with a choked sob, the nurse filling the uncomfortable silence.

“Alright, I see them both listed, we’ll give Jack a call and if you’d like we’ll wait until you arrive to decide whether or not to call his mother, does that sound alright?”

Race gave a muffled, “Yeah,” before finally hanging up the phone, already on his feet, keys in hand, television still running, door swinging shut behind him.

The only thought in his mind was _Spot_ , _Spot_ , _Spot_ , _Spot_.

And now here he was. Five minutes from the hospital, hoping against hope that Spot was going to be okay. He had to be okay. He had to be okay, right?

With another instruction from the navigation system, Race was taking a right, then another left, and finally, finally, he was pulling into the hospital.

He threw himself into a parking spot haphazardly, almost closing his shirttails in the door in his haste to get out. He rushed into the lobby, taking the stairs two at a time and cursing the distance from his car to the entrance.

Bursting through the glass doors, he made a beeline for the front desk, sucking in a deep breath. He leaned against the cold wood, the receptionist looking up at him with startled eyes.

Before she could get a word out, he gasped, “I’m here for Spot— Sean Conlon?”

Glancing down her list, she nodded briskly. “Yes, ah, he’s currently undergoing surgery on the fifth floor, but if you show me your I.D. I can give you a pass to go up?”

Searching frantically in his back pocket, Race managed to pull out his wallet, fumbling fingers rifling through the contents and seizing his drivers license from the back.

“That’ll just be one moment.”

Race tapped his foot anxiously as he waited, eyes scanning the sparsely populated lobby. It was too cheerful for a hospital, he thought, too colorful. The bright blues and reds didn’t make him happy, or hopeful, they made him think of blood, of skin, turning blue as all the air left Spot’s lungs.

No, he couldn’t be thinking like that, not yet, when he didn’t even know the extent of the damages. He needed to stay strong, for Spot, and for Jack.

The whirring sound of a machine broke into his thoughts, the sound of his I.D. being printed and spat out. The woman handed it to him, telling him to wait in the visiting room on the fifth floor, that someone would find him after the surgery, but Race was already gone.

He jabbed his finger against the elevator button, rushing through the doors as soon as they opened and pressing the button that would transport him to the fifth floor.

As the elevator rose into the air, bright music played, soft and light and altogether the exact opposite mood Race found himself in. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the tears from falling. It would be okay. It would be okay, and he had to be okay, had to keep it together. He owed it to Spot.

The elevator slowly rumbled to a stop, doors sliding open with a cheerful ping, unloading its burden. Race was out of the gilded cage in three seconds flat, skidding across the tiled floors and stumbling to a stop in front of the receptionist’s desk.

He cleared his throat, dreading this second conversation, just another barrier keeping him from Spot.

“I’m here for Sean Conlon?” he half queried.

The nurse nodded briskly. “He’s still in surgery, dear, but you can wait right over—“

A voice broke into her sentence, sounding familiar and just as choked up as he himself was.

“Race?”

He turned quickly, finding himself face to face with Spot’s foster brother, and his best friend.

“Jack?”

The other boy opened his arms wide, and Race suddenly found himself in Jack’s embrace, head pressed tightly against the shorter boy’s shoulder.

“How did you get here so quickly?” he asked, voice coming out muffled against Jack’s shirt.

The other boy pulled away slightly, his hand still resting on Race’s arm.

“I got the call as I was driving up this way to visit Katherine, so I just kept going. I only got here about five minutes ago anyway. I’ve just been waiting over here, they won’t give me any updates yet.”

Race blinked rapidly, feeling his eyes tear up for what felt like the hundredth time that day. He’d been promising himself over and over again not to cry, but the full gravity of the situation was hitting him now, as he stood in the dimly lit hallway of the hospital with Jack, both boys awaiting news, expecting and dreading the worst.

“Whoa, whoa,” Jack said, his tone soothing. Slowly he led Race over to the trio of plastic chairs he had been sitting in before, helping him to sit down. “It’s okay, Spot’s gonna be okay. They’re gonna— they’re gonna help him out, they’re gonna fix him.”

Race choked back a sob, his voice faltering. “But what if they can’t, Jack? We don’t even know what’s wrong with him yet, no one will tell us anything, and I just— I just—“

Finally giving into the panic and fear and grief that had been threatening to engulf him for the last hour, Race let a sob trickle out of his mouth. And another, and another, until he was practically dry sobbing right there in that goddamn hallway, with its burned out lightbulbs and horrendously patterned carpet floor.

For two minutes, he allowed himself to cry until his chest hurt, his lungs aching and burning and then he stopped. That was enough. He couldn’t afford to cry any more, couldn’t afford to be weak. Race had already broken his promise once, but no more. He had to stay strong for Spot.

Glancing up, he registered Jack’s arm slung across his back in a comforting manner, his eyes respectfully averted fromRace’s public show of grief. Once he noticed Race looking up, however, Jack’s eyes snapped back to meet his.

“It’s gonna be okay, Racer,” he murmured, but to Race, it sounded like the person Jack was really trying to convince was himself. That was okay, though, because in all honesty, Race was doing the same damn thing. What a pair they made.

They sat there in silence for ten long minutes, Race counting each tick on the clock and praying that with each new one, someone would come to give them good news.

His eyes were slowly growing heavy, Race fighting to keep them open and stifling a yawn behind his hand —because how he could he be tired at a time like this— when suddenly a door at the end of the hall burst open. Room 512. _Spot’s_ _room_.

Instantly, he and Jack were on their feet, moving toward the disturbance. As they neared the room, a flurry of movement could be seen within, a blur of white lab coats obscuring the patient from view. Frenzied noise filled the air, harsh commands and panicked shouts. Straining his ears, Race could pick up a few comments as a doctor rushed from the room and to another ward, neglecting to close the door behind him in his haste.

“Come on, come on—“

“We need blood, stat—“

“His heart rate’s slowing, his breathing’s slowing, damn it, do something—“

Race shot Jack a single panicked look, and then the beeping of a heart monitor overtook everything else, Race’s focus narrowing in until that was the only thing he could hear, loud and insistent, until it was followed by, “His heart’s stopping, we need blood, his heart’s stopped, Cohen get the defibrillator—!”

And just like that, Race’s world collapsed around him.

He staggered back like he had been shot, knees buckling and breathing coming out heavy, stumbling back until he hit the wall and slid down it. He barely registered Jack at his side, face drawn white and jaw shaking, fists clenched uselessly at his side.

He barely registered the doctor rushing back into the room with clear bags of crimson blood, shutting the door behind him and effectively muting the room once again.

All he could hear, all he could think of, were those words playing over and over again in his mind. _His_ _heart’s_ _stopped_. _His_ _heart’s_ _stopped._ _His_ _heart’s—_

Race drew his knees up to his chest, carpet biting into his exposed skin as a painful sob was ripped from his throat, every part of his body aching.

Not Spot. It couldn’t be Spot. His crazy, stupid, fearless boyfriend couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t. It made no sense. Just this morning they’d woken up in their apartment together, legs tanged together and arms intertwined, so close they were practically one. He had been singing as he hopped into the shower, a rare occurrence but one that Race loved. He loved the secret parts of Spot that only he got to see, loved how his boyfriend would only truly let down his walls and be completely, fully vulnerable with him, with Race. He loved him, every single thing about him. His dumb habits, his favorite movies and weird taste in music, his passion for debate and righteousness. His short stature and defensiveness about it, the way his smile looked as the sunlight streamed through the broad window in the morning. The way he would breathe out _Anthony_ , when Race made him fall apart with his mouth, reverently, looking up at Race with wide eyes.

Goddamnit, he just loved him. He loved him and he hadn’t told him that morning, had been too busy rushing out the door to class and he didn’t say it. Why didn’t he say it? Why? Why— Why did Spot have to be gone? Why him?

Sobs wracked his slim frame, and he didn’t care that he’d promised himself not to cry again, he didn’t care because that was before this, before he had known Spot was dead, before—

“Mr. Higgins?”

Through tear-blurred eyes, Race looked up shakily, just able to make out the form of a doctor poking her head out from Spot’s room. He nodded mutely, not bothering to get up. This was just going to confirm it, she was going to tell him that Spot was dead, that he was never coming back, that—

“Mr. Conlon is in stable condition. He had a very difficult surgery and there was extensive damage sustained on his upper body, but the prognosis is hopeful.”

For a moment, Race sat stock still, not even daring to hope. He wondered if his brain was playing tricks on him, making him believe this was real, but no. He was still sitting in the hallway of the hospital, scratchy carpet digging into his legs and tears trailing down his face. Jack was still sitting next to him, stunned into silence. The doctor was still standing in front of him, waiting expectantly for his reply.

And that solidified it for him. This was real. Spot was alive. His boyfriend, arguably the love of his life, Sean Patrick Conlon, was alive. He was alive.

As if in a daze, Race rose to his feet, ignoring his legs cramping uncomfortably, ignoring the noises coming from the rest of the hallway, ignoring everything but the doctor.

“He’s— he’s okay? He’s going to be okay?” he whispered.

The white-coated woman nodded.

“Yes. He’s still recuperating so you can’t see him yet, and we still need to keep close tabs on him throughout the night, but as long as he makes it through tonight with no complications, he should have a full recovery.” She smiled then, a kind, sympathetic smile, before turning back to the room and going inside, closing the door behind her once more.

Race stood frozen in place, barely breathing, staring at the wall as if he could see through it to Spot laying on the bed inside. Finally, he turned to Jack, making eye contact with the other boy and instantly sweeping him into a hug.

“Oh my god. Oh my god,” he could hear Jack muttering next to his ear, and Race nodded, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, still half in disbelief. The words, Spot, and alive, and thank god, kept bouncing around his mind, filling his brain with a pleasant kind of hum.

“I’m going to go call Medda,” Jack muttered after a while, releasing Race from his grip and giving him a watery smile. Race nodded again, feeling a little guilty for forgetting Spot’s foster mom.

The feeling was gone quickly, however, overtaken by a rush of relief and euphoria. Spot was alive.

Sure, he was injured, and Race felt awful about that. Spot obviously had a hard recovery ahead, and he was looking at weeks in the hospital, but Race would be there every step of the way, cheering him on. It would be hard, and for Spot, it would be excruciating, but he wouldn’t be alone. Race would be there, Jack would be there, Medda would be there. They would all be there to help him through his recovery, to remind him that this was not the worst case scenario, that it almost had been the worst, that he had almost died. But he hadn’t, and for that, they would all be eternally grateful.

For Race, however, that was in the near future, not to be worried about just yet. For now, he needed to collect himself, to convince himself that everything would be okay. That Spot would be okay. He smiled, tasting the sweet feeling of relief and joy on his tongue.

Spot was alive, and nothing else mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> Guys. Guys, I was *this* close to killing off Spot. Like, **this** close. So consider yourselves lucky and also on thin fucking ice :) anywaysss, drop kudos or a comment if u want, those make my day


End file.
